Five Times Sherlock Realized He Was Getting Older
by Mildred Graves
Summary: . . . And one time it didn't matter.
1. Running

"Can you explain why we're here again, please?" John said bitterly, taking another bite of his pasta primavera. It was late and John clearly was not keen on waking up early tomorrow to go the Surgery.

Sherlock sighed noisily from where he sat across from John, he loathed repeating himself. "_Because_ Anna Thompson's killer will _obviously_ pass by Angelo's on the way to the rendezvous point where he will hand off her ring in exchange for the money."

"You had the chance to nab him earlier, why now? If he didn't have the ring on him, the police could have just questioned him." He still sounded resentful, but there was a peek of fascination in his tone that made Sherlock smile a bit.

"He did have the ring on him, in fact." Sherlock stated, and then added in explanation, "He kept fingering to his breast pocket, where there was a small box-like bulge. Obviously his late girlfriend's ring."

"Then why-"

"Because he is absolutely clueless with whom he is dealing the ring off to. An underground organization offering money for ancient Chinese artifacts . . . ."

John paused in his eating, fork halfway to mouth, and stared wide eyed. "You think it's a Black Lotus cell?"

"Perhaps." After all this time, parts of Moriarty's web still seemed to come back to haunt him. It frustrated Sherlock to no end, but if the occasional smuggler was the worst he had to worry about then he supposed he really couldn't complain. John was safe and thus, those two years in hiding had been worth it.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" He hated it when John dragged him away from his thinking.

"Sherlock, he's here!"

Sherlock straightened immediately and glanced out the window. Low and behold the young man, twenty-something, was walking down the street clutching the small ring box glancing about nervously in way that practically screamed murderer.

He jumped up and, with John by his side, made his way to the exit.

"Hey! Wait a second there misters! You've gotta pay!" Angelo had passed away a few years ago and the new owner owed Sherlock no favors and therefore free meals were out of the question. Apparently when Angelo told Sherlock that he would eat there for free for as long as he lived he had been referring to his own life, not Sherlock's.

Sherlock didn't pause in his stride and gave a curt nod to John who groaned loudly, realizing he was to be left behind yet again to deal with what Sherlock deemed a boring and insignificant task of commonplace existence. Namely: paying the bill.

Once on the street, Sherlock took off in the direction of the murderer. He stayed a good distance away as not to appear suspicious but after a few minutes of following the man, he seemed to realize he was being followed and took off running. Sherlock swore and began sprinting after the man through the dark London night.

The wind was bitingly cold and even with his great coat on, Sherlock felt the freeze to his bones as he ran through the streets. The man was getting away, the gap between Sherlock and he was getting a bit too large for comfort. Sherlock forced himself to go faster even as his muscles protested profoundly. They burned and cramped with pain while his heart beat thunderously in his chest and blood roared in his ears.

He gritted his teeth as breathing became a painful task, the freezing London air burning his throat. _Breathing is boring_, he thought furiously. But it was necessary none the less.

As of late, the usual task of running while on a case seemed to becoming increasingly difficult. Sherlock kept his discomfort hidden from John who would most likely have some sort of ridiculous clinical answer to this problem.

So he pushed his body to its limit, surging after the man with fierce ambition until . . .

In his carelessness his foot caught on the ground and he toppled forward.

Sherlock rolled and stood on his knees fast enough to watch the killer hail a cab and swiftly disappear into the night. He let out a howl of disappointment punching the ground, before realizing his hands were bleeding from where they hit the ground. He stared at the blood, almost bemused by its presence and stood up.

Never. _Never_ had that happened to him. Tripped over his own feet, chasing a criminal, oh good Lord. Something was off. He checked his pulse, higher than his usual active rate; touched his forehead, perspiration which was unusual for him; not to mention his body ached. He got out a handkerchief and wiped his hands, applying mild pressure to the slightly deeper more persistent cuts as he slowly walked down the street. He phone trilled a text signal. It was from John.

** You alright?**

He quickly responded.

** Meet me back at 221b. –SH**

And then he sighed and mused aloud to the brisk London air and the cold white stars. "I'm not quite sure, John . . . . I think . . . I think I may be getting old."

* * *

**A/N: First story ever on this site! Hurrah! This will be a six chapter story and I'll update ASAP. I hope you all enjoy it!**


	2. Eating

"Why . . . _why_ would he kill his own brother but let the wife live?" Sherlock paced furiously about the room, while John sat in his chair typing up their latest case for his blog.

"Maybe the wife really wasn't there?" John offered, glancing up from his laptop.

"No, impossible, of course she was there – didn't you see her fingernails? But a smart man like Daren King, if he wanted to get away with a murder with no witnesses then he would. But –" He stopped abruptly, staring ahead at something John couldn't see. "Oh."

"What?"

"_Oh_." Sherlock grinned madly, oblivious of John's presence. He raced towards the mirror where he had attached several photographs of the crime scene, the supposed killer, and the victim. "She was in on it. Obvious."

"In on it . . . Sherlock! It was her _husband_!" John protested.

But Sherlock was on a roll now, walking the length of the room with renewed vigor. "Why else would she claim to be somewhere else at the time? She obviously assisted the murder in some aspect. Perhaps it was even her idea in the first place." He jumped up in the air, looking very much like a little boy on Christmas day. "She's less stupid than I originally thought."

John shook his head in disapproval. "You enjoy this far too much." But there was an underlying tone of affection.

Sherlock smirked, pulling out his phone. His brain was working feverishly on the puzzle and his blood was pumping. "What's not to enjoy?" He was about to text the DI Dimmok when, abruptly, fatigue grabbed him. The blood rushed from his head sickeningly and his body suddenly felt as though it weighed a million pounds. He felt himself tip forward.

"John." He managed to croak, before crashing to the floor.

"Christ, Sherlock!" John was immediately by his side. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock blinked blurrily up at him, feeling ill. "I –" He started, and then stopped abruptly as the room spun.

Steely faced, John went into doctor mode as realization hit him. "When was the last time you ate?" He demanded as he helped Sherlock into a sitting position.

Sherlock gave an incoherent grunt as he attempted to stand.

"Oh, no you don't. Sit, or you'll fall again and crack your head open." John pulled him back down gently but firmly. "Now, when was the last time you ate?"

"I ate just yesterday . . . Wednesday. You made me eat a piece toast. I was sick for nearly an hour. Now if you would just let me . . . ." He tried to stand again but John held him down.

"Wednesday! Sherlock, that was four day ago!" John proclaimed thunderously. "Have you slept at all?"

"I took a nap that same day." He said indignantly, not seeing the point. He was feeling better and he had a case to complete.

"A nap." John muttered and then louder. "You are an _idiot_." He pulled out his phone.

"Who are you texting?"

John shot him a pointed glance. "Deduce it yourself."

Sherlock grimaced. "You're going to tell Mary on me."

John sent the text and stood up, Sherlock followed in suit but swayed on his feet, another wave of sickness hitting him. John grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the couch.

"You're not moving from that spot 'till you've got a decent meal in you and had at least an hour of sleep."

"But the case John-"

"I don't give a shit about the case. Text Dimmok the theory if you want, but you are going to stay here." John said sternly.

"It's not a theory." Sherlock grumbled but sent Dimmok the text all the same.

John made his way into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "I'm making tea."

"I don't want any." Sherlock responded petulantly.

He responded darkly. "You don't have a choice."

Sherlock grumbled a swear and refused to look up as Mary Watson came into the flat carrying a tray of food. After getting married, John and Mary had moved into 221c. Neither had enough money to buy a real house and Mrs. Hudson had been generous with the rent. She even put in a good word for them to her nephew (who now owned 221 Baker Street) so that even after she had passed away, John and Mary still had a cheap place to stay. It was convenient for John who was able to maintain a good relationship with his wife and keep his part time job as Sherlock Holmes blogger. John hardly spent any time in his own flat anyhow except to sleep (and other related activities), and usually could be found in 221b.

"I've heard you've been neglecting yourself again, Sherlock." Mary said placing the tray down on the coffee table and sitting next to him.

"Or so John says." Sherlock sulked. "I've gone weeks without food or rest before, what's so different about it now?"

Mary faced him and waited until he did the same before speaking. "Sherlock, it's never a good thing for a person to go that long without nutrition and restoration but you could get away with it before. Not many people can but of course not many people are Sherlock Holmes." She gave him an indulgent smile and glanced quickly to the kitchen where John was tending to the kettle, making sure he couldn't hear them. "But here's the thing, Sherlock, you're sixty. Neither you nor John want to admit it but you're both getting older. You can't keep on like this-"

"On like what?" Sherlock snapped angrily, but Mary remained calm keeping a small sad smile on her face.

"Chasing armed criminals, neglecting your body's needs, throwing yourself into immediate danger." She continued quietly. "We all have our limit. It's miraculous John and you are still at it."

Sherlock glared. "What are you implying?"

"I'm saying what I've been saying for twenty years: take better care of yourself."

He shook his head. "No, it's more than that."

Mary sighed and placed a hand on Sherlock's arm while he stared sulkily at the cooling food in front of him. "We all have our limit. Sherlock, John and I spoke about it. When you're ready, we're both willing to retire with-"

"Retire?" Sherlock's head snapped up to meet Mary's eyes. "Retire?" He said louder and stood up sharply. He instantly regretted it; his vision went black for a moment and he was very close to dry heaving. Mary stood up and grabbed his shoulders securely, he shook her off.

"Sherlock, please-"

John came into the room, hearing the noise. "Sherlock, I told you sit-"

Sherlock glared icily. "Retire? Honestly John."

John shot Mary a look. "You told him?"

"I'm trying to." She stared helplessly at John.

"Is this what you two do in your free time? Talk about my mortality? How dull." With that Sherlock stomped to his room and slammed the door shut behind him.

He paced the room furiously but soon felt ill again and sat down on the edge of his bed; heard his knees pop as he bent. Retirement. What a thought! Never had he even considered – or if he had he'd no doubt deleted the thought.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror across the room. Attached to it were old photographs used in previous cases. He stared between the pictures and looked at himself, really looked at himself; something he hadn't done in years.

_My hair used to be completely black_, he thought feeling as close to nostalgic as Sherlock Holmes could, _now look at it: there's as much gray as black. And my face, Jesus, look at my face. All those lines._

He touched the lines across his forehead, tracing them with one finger. Frown lines. No surprise there.

Then he traced the ones around his mouth. Smile lines._ Those are from John_, he thought staring at himself in defeat, _all because of John_.

* * *

John sighed. "He'll come to his senses eventually."

Mary shook her head. "He already is. If he really thought he was fine he would have left the flat, he went to his room. If we leave he might come out and nibble on some food."

"He's right, you know." John commented as they left for their own flat.

"What's that?"

"You'd think we'd have better things to talk about than Sherlock Holmes' retirement."

* * *

**A/N: A word on my Mary Morstan:**

**So here's the thing: I wanted to stick as close as possible to canon for this fic. Which meant (forgive me) no Johnlock, and yes JohnXMary. I also didn't want to do the ambiguous "JohnAndMaryWereMarriedButThenMaryDiedAndJohnWasSa dForAWhile" routine that a lot of people do.**

**What I did was I took Arthur Conan Doyle's Mary Morstan (kind, brave, intelligent) and took away any oppression that she might have endured as a woman in that day of age. And ta-da! This is what I got, and to be honest I've kind of fallen in love with the character and if she's depicted any other way in Sherlock Season 3, I shall have a fit.**

**Speaking of fit: GUYS THIS STORY HAS HAD OVER 100 VIEWS AND I KNOW THAT'S A BIT PATHETIC BUT I'M SO EXCITED ANYWAY. But this also means there's a huge truck load of y'all who haven't reviewed. I don't care if you hate the story: tell me why so I can fix it.**

**I'll update again tomorrow (sorry for the rant.) TTFN, DFTBA!**


	3. Respect

Another day, another crime scene.

"Ah! There you are Sherlock." Dimmok approached him as he and John got out of their cab.

A few years ago Greg Lestrade had retired and now most of Sherlock's current cases were under the control of DI Charlie Dimmok. He had met Dimmok at an early age and had quickly convinced the young man that it was Sherlock's way or no way. Where Lestrade might have greeted Sherlock with a heavy sigh and a warning as to his unrealistic time limit, Dimmok would just thrust the facts at Sherlock and wait for an answer. It should've been relieving, but it wasn't. He remembered the day he first deducted Lestrade was retiring.

"How long have you been considering retiring, Detective Inspector?" He had asked without glancing up from his work (he was examining the footsteps left by the murderer and victim.) John was outside questioning the witnesses and Lestrade and he were the only people in the room.

"How did you-" Lestrade sighed. "Oh, never mind. I'm getting to old for this job, Sherlock. Too much running about for my taste. Probably'll end up getting a boring desk job." He gave a small smile.

"Hmm." Sherlock said tonelessly. "You wouldn't have that amount of dust on you if you were getting a 'boring desk job'."

"What?" He asked bewildered.

"You collected your desk ornaments last night, thus the dust. If you were simply moving to a different position you would keep your possessions at the office. However, you still have dust on you today, a whole day later. You were called here from your house, too early to stop by the office first, so perhaps you brought your things home last night and before leaving for work were looking over your trinkets in an act of nostalgia. You aren't getting a new job. You're retiring for good." Sherlock finally met Lestrade's eyes.

"Okay, yeah. I'm retiring for good. The wife's" – after the unfortunate divorce with his first wife, Lestrade had managed to re-marry; a co worker of Molly's actually – "got her eye on a house in the country. My London days are almost spent. Don't tell any of the Yard, though, I want to tell them myself." Sherlock nodded. Lestrade shook his head. "You know after all these years, I've never quite gotten used to your deductions. I don't tell you often enough: it's a real talent, you know. Something to admire, I certainly always have."

"Why so sentimental? It's not as if you're dying." Sherlock drawled, hiding his pleasure at the compliment.

"I know, it's just – well, now that I'm not attached to any murders you and I won't be seeing much of each other." Lestrade said taking care to be nonchalant.

Sherlock stopped examining the footsteps and turned his full attention on Lestrade. "When are you resigning?"

"Tomorrow I'm giving them my two week notice."

Sherlock smiled. "Well, we're certain to get a good murder in that time." Lestrade rolled his eyes; Sherlock resumed his work. "But Inspector, I do want you to know . . . ." He paused as though trying to figure out the right words. "You're admiration does not go . . . unrequited."

There was a pause.

"Would you say that again on video?"

"Oh, for God's sake. Whenever I try to be nice and you people always throw it back in my face." Sherlock said in exasperation. Lestrade chuckled in response.

Lestrade hadn't been the first to leave the Scotland Yard. Sally Donovan had gotten herself a husband ("That poor man." "Hush, Sherlock." "Well, John, it's true") and a handful of kids and quit the force a while back deciding that she'd rather be a mum than a police officer. Anderson had stayed a bit longer, but transferred out of the homicide division ("At last, John! Perhaps there is a God!") and they'd heard little of him since.

"Alright sir, right this way." Ah yes, yet another strange attribute to today's officers of the homicide division.

Sherlock leaned over and whispered to John, "Why must they insist on calling me sir?"

"Maybe it's a sign of long deserved respect." John suggested cynically, but was obviously relieved that Sherlock was talking properly to him again. Ever since the retirement fiasco Sherlock had been very cold to Mary and him.

"Hmm." They made their way into the house where a man in a suit lay dead on the floor.

"John?"

After all this time, Sherlock still demanded John try his hand at the science of deduction. Perhaps it was humiliating; comparing himself to Sherlock Holmes, but there was always the rare chance of that look of pride Sherlock was showing more and more as John slowly progressed in his ability.

John sighed. "Well, judging by his head wound he died of several strikes to the back of the head with a blunt instrument."

"Obviously."

"Well hold on, I'm just warming up." John said annoyed.

"Alright, alright." Sherlock snuck a glance at Dimmok who stood in the doorway. It was obvious Dimmok would prefer for Sherlock to just get on with the deductions already, but once again, this man was not Lestrade. Dimmok seemed to live in constant fear that Sherlock would decide that they were all idiots and would simply cease to assist Scotland Yard, and so if Sherlock said John would have a turn, John would have a turn.

"Okay, married. Happily married, considering the state of his ring. Not very well off considering the suit. Business man-"

Sherlock made a coughing noise.

"Alright, not a business man. He . . . oh! He's in London for a conference, for "medical engineers" says the brochure in his pocket. The conference is just a few blocks from here . . . . . He was hit on the ground considering the angle of the strikes, but if he was being attacked he would've rolled over to defend himself . . . unless he's not in a right state. So maybe he got drunk at this conference because he was nervous and was easily picked off and brought here where he was pushed down and hit repetitively until losing consciousness."

"Good, John." Sherlock let a small flicker of a smile shine through.

"Thanks."

"However . . . you did miss a key component to this murder."

"Which is?" John said in aghast.

"I'll explain in the cab." He said as he started out of the room. "We'll be off, detective Inspector."

"Erm . . . alright. But, aren't you going to give me any information so we can help?" Dimmok trailed after them as they headed for the street.

"I think John and I will be sufficient enough for now. I'll text you if need be."

"Alright. Thanks." Dimmok peeled off and went to talk to some of the officers on site.

As John and he got into their cab they heard a chorus of scattered, "See you"s, "Ta"s, and "Nice work"s.

Sherlock instructed the address of the conference to the cabbie. As they drove away Sherlock commented, annoyed. "The past few years they've begun doing that."

"Who? What?"

"John, do pay attention." John held back a retort. "The Yarders are drastically more courteous to me than before."

"Quite a bit different from when I first met you. I hated that, them calling you a freak; a psychopath."

Sherlock nodded absent mindedly. "All the officers who used to act with resent towards me have all left the Yard for one reason or another. The ones still here have been trained to respect me."

"You make it sound like a bad thing." John stated.

Sherlock shared a long glance with John.

_We're getting old. _He communicated silently.

_I know._ John said with the incline of his head.

_One day we'll have to leave, too._ Sherlock scanned his friends face.

_I know._ John pursed his lips.

_I don't want to._ Sherlock's eyes flickered away.

_I know. I'm willing to wait 'till you're ready._ The side of John's mouth quirked up sadly.

"You never let Mary finish, a couple nights ago." John said quietly. "I know. I know you don't want to think about retiring, I don't either. But when you decide you're ready, Mary inherited a house in Sussex from her parents and we've been renting it out until now. We were wondering if you would come and live there with us. We'll have Dimmok send you cold case files, and there's a whole beekeeping setup that her parents used to maintain if you wanted to try your hand at it."

"Bees?" Sherlock's eyebrows skyrocketed.

"Mary insisted I told you that bit. I keep imagining you in one of those beekeeper suits . . . ." He giggled and soon Sherlock joined in chuckling softly.

"Okay, listen." John said, breathless from laughter. "Just think about it Sherlock. We're not going 'till you're ready. And it doesn't have to be this week, or this year, or the next even, just . . . when you're ready."

Sherlock found himself nodding slowly. "Alright. I'll think about it."

They caught each other's eyes again.

_I can't believe you want me to come with you._

_Well you should, I've stuck around this long haven't I?_

_But retirement? Are you sure you can stand me consuming much more of your life._

_Sherlock Holmes, I couldn't live without you if I tried._

"Now what was it I missed?"


	4. Sleeping

Sherlock, being Sherlock, still slept at odd hours.

A nap here, a nap there, that's how he used to live. It was good, it worked, John complained, but honestly it was always fine.

However, upon late it seemed he was closing his eyes for more naps than usual and when he opened his eyes the day had somehow slipped onto the next. It was becoming a frustrating habit.

But never had it been as obvious as a problem as it was now.

Sherlock Holmes was in the middle of a case, and he never slept while on a case.

Never.

But as the clock struck eleven, and the case was slowly unraveling in his mind, and if he just studied the victim a bit more then it would all be clear, and the couch was suddenly and achingly comfortable, and his thoughts were getting foggy, and God it would all just make sense if he closed his eyes for a few minutes, and his head was slipping sideways . . . .

John woke up with a jolt. Heart pounding and drenched in sweat; he got out of bed being careful not to disturb Mary and set off for 221b. After all these years, John Watson still suffered from night terrors. Less so, mind you, but they were there all the same. But it was no longer a stiflingly hot war zone that ailed John, it was a hospital rooftop with his best friend teetering a top it.

He knew that Sherlock was still up (he never slept while on a case) and decided to check on him. He only prayed that Sherlock hadn't torn the flat apart in one of his late night fits again . . . .

"Sherlock." He called, uneasy at the silence of his old flat. He glanced 'round the living space and was shocked to find the consulting detective lying on the couch covered in files and papers, eyes shut, breathing the deep and content pace of someone in a peaceful sleep. John gazed fondly upon his friend, smiling as Sherlock tightened his grip on the murder victim's file in his sleep looking very much like a child cuddling his stuffed animal.

"John?" Sherlock muttered groggily, eyes blinking blurrily up at him for a moment before snapping open. He sat up rigidly, causing papers to fly everywhere.

"Right here. Any luck on the . . . ." He trailed off, as Sherlock scrambled up looking about in a panic.

"What time is it?" He asked urgently.

"About one o'clock. Why? What's wrong?"

Sherlock was livid. "I don't sleep while on cases, John. _Never_."

John stared blankly. "And you're upset because you took a healthy nap like a regular human being."

Sherlock had begun to pace feverishly. "I was so tired John, I still am. I needed sleep, John, and I had no control over it. This is . . . this is . . . ."

"Normal." John interjected, getting mad now. "It is normal. Stop acting like you're some kind of god, Sherlock. Because you're not, you are a human being. A remarkable one, mind you, but a human none the less. If you push yourself too hard you'll end up-" He stopped himself.

"What?" Sherlock said coldly, stopping to stare icily at John. "Dead?"

John nodded, numbly. "Yes."

Sherlock let out a harsh laugh. "Well, that was the initial plan."

"What?" John snapped.

"You!" Sherlock pointed a finger at John in accusation. "You, Doctor John Watson! I had it all figured out so it would never have to come to this. And then I met you! You've ruined everything!" He cried in disgust.

"What the hell are you on about?" John said bewildered, more concerned than angry now.

Sherlock took a deep breath and collapsed in his chair, exhaling noisily in frustration. As John sat down, Sherlock began talking, taking care not to look at his friend. "In my line of work there is a considerably large amount of danger –" John snorted in agreement "– and I never intended on living to an old age."

"Sherlock–"

"All that mattered to me was the work and if I couldn't work then life wasn't worth living. I didn't worry though, oh no, of course not. Because I knew one day I wouldn't be quick enough, or I wouldn't be looking, and then I'd be dead. Dead young and fit, that was how it was supposed to go." He was talking fast; no breath in between words.

John was stunned.

"And then you." He snarled maliciously. "You, telling me to '_eat this Sherlock_' '_sleep now Sherlock_' '_be careful Sherlock_' '_I'll help you Sherlock_'." he mimicked John harshly. "And now, now I'm still here! I didn't _want_ to live this long!" He took a shaky breath, staring fiercely at his shoes.

John felt the dull edge of horror seep in. He had always known . . . speculated that Sherlock had a bit less self preservation motivation than the average person. But to hear him say it aloud felt like plunging into frigid water.

Finally he found his voice. "When would you have wanted to die?"

"Sorry?"

John waited for Sherlock to look him in the eyes and then continued. "If you had to choose a time to die, when would it have been? If you had been shot ten years ago during the case with Robert Queen, then you would have missed out on ten more years' worth of cases. If you'd died during a case five years ago you wouldn't have completed the one a few weeks ago about Anna Thompson murder. Or how about when I first met you? Right before the case with the pink lady, would you have rather died young than met me? Do you understand what I'm saying, Sherlock?"

He sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes." Because it was true, he wouldn't have given away the past years for anything in the world.

"I'm not going to apologize for caring about you." John said.

"I'm not going to thank you, either."

"I'm not asking you to."

There was a long stretch of silence before John finally said, "So, about this case . . . ."

Sherlock's rapid fire deductions soon squashed the silence and somehow along the course of the night both men ended up dozing off while staring intently at photographs of the crime scene.

Mary found them in the golden light of morning. John on the very end of the couch with his head tilted back, legs outstretched on the floor, a hand in Sherlock's hair whose head was in his lap and legs were crowding the rest of the couch.

Mary stared on bemused (taking a quick picture with her phone, of course) before putting on the kettle for tea and putting bread in the newly bought toaster (Sherlock had destroyed three within the past two months and Mary was currently waging war with him attempting to keep this one alive.) She tried to be quite, but soon Sherlock stirred and made a small (and unbearably adorable) noise of protest.

He gazed blearily at Mary, a faint smile ghosting his lips before suddenly realizing where he was. He stumbled to his feet trying to detangle himself from John, who snapped awake and flushed red at the sight of his ex flat mate struggling to get off of him. Mary chuckled as the two men managed finally to get up and spring apart to separate sides of the room. John's face was beat red and Sherlock was startlingly pink, a jarring difference compared to his usual ivory complexion.

"You know," Mary said through a stifled laugh. "Another woman would be suspicious if her husband spent more time sleeping with his ex flat mate than his own wife. I hope you know how lucky you are John Watson."

John smiled sheepishly. "Very lucky." She kissed his cheek lightly before returning to the kitchen. Sherlock made a gagging noise.

"Very mature." John said as Mary smiled benevolently at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but then caught sight of a particularly fascinating picture on the coffee table and pulled it close to his face to examine.

"Oh." He said suddenly. "Oh! It was the neighbor, John! Of course!"

John moaned. "Too early, Sherlock." Before collapsing back onto the couch.

Quickly seeing that this particular Watson wasn't going to listen to him, Sherlock quickly waltzed into the kitchen and began talking to Mary, explaining his deductions quickly and zealously. Mary worked her way around the kitchen, nodding and adding a comment here or there when necessary.

John watched the two of them in the early golden glow of 221b. He thought about his life if Sherlock had attained his goal of dying young before even meeting John and cringed. He thought about the people he wouldn't have met and the adventures he wouldn't have had.

He smiled. _Yes,_ he thought to himself, _I'm very lucky indeed._


	5. Jumping

Closely followed (as always) by John, Sherlock Holmes raced through an old office building after the criminal.

It had been a fantastic case. A bit tricky; more than Sherlock could say for most of the murders Dimmok had consulted him on lately. And now as he sprinted down the moonlit halls of the murderers' place of work, he felt the welcome adrenaline buzz that was as efficient as any drug.

But there was a nagging sensation in his gut that was insistently reminding him of his aching joints, his too tired body, and unpleasantly cold flesh. Not to mention the un-delete able vision of 221b (in all its drafty and damp glory) that seemed to be growing more and more appealing as the night progressed. It was shocking: to be longing for something else while in the midst of his favorite activity. He pondered sub-consciously about this aspect as he pursued the criminal.

His body, the criminal, the deductions.

It was all very distracting.

The man tore up the stairwell assumedly in pursuit of the roof and Sherlock followed; closing in. Soon they were both running across the rooftop with the purple dusk closing in around them. The man did not break stride for even a second as he leapt from one building to the next.

Sherlock followed, hurdling across the gap without hesitation.

Together they raced, cat and mouse, Sherlock within a few feet of him now . . . if he could just run a bit faster . . . .

The next rooftop was eight feet away. The younger criminal lunged across with little effort.

Sherlock followed. Not hesitating. Not thinking . . . .

And there was no anticipated thump of concrete underfoot. Sherlock felt a sudden and abrupt lurch of horror as he realized that, no; he wasn't going to make it across.

He plummeted from the two story building, pin wheeling his arms. The unavoidable abyss surging upward to meet him.

It was all very quick; it couldn't have even been a full two second fall. But the memory of that indescribable fear would stay with him forever.

He hit the ground with a jarring crack.

And then he was dead to the world.

* * *

Well. For the immediate future, anyway.

* * *

_Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . ._

The smell of anesthetics. Paper gown against flesh. IV needle in arm. Several limbs constrained in unnecessary casts and splints. He would groan if not for the painful raw sensation in his throat.

Lord, how he detested hospitals.

And then he remembered why he was here. The chase, the roof, the fall . . . . Why had he fallen? It didn't make sense. The gap between the roofs hadn't been too large but he hadn't been able to make it. And how had he gotten to the hospital? Oh, John must've found him –

John.

Oh, God. John was going to be furious.

He tried to open his eyes and found this task quite a challenge. The florescent lights were scorching but curiosity held him strong as he struggled to glance around at his surroundings. Damn neck brace.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see a slumped John's figure in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs. Despite this, John's hand was inches from his own on the hospital bed. _Holding hands, John?_ He thought, amused. _Honestly, you can hardly blame me when people talk._

He considered momentarily allowing John to continue sleeping. The motion passed.

"John." He rasped with no result. "John."

John grunted and ran a hand over his face. Then jerked to attention realizing who was addressing him. "Sherlock?"

"Obviously." He croaked.

"Oh God. How are you feeling? No, you'll just say bored or something completely idiotic like that. After you were admitted into the hospital Dimmok and his guys got the criminal . . . you were probably wondering. More importantly, you have two broken legs, concussion, a fractured collar bone, left arm broken . . . ." He began to rattle off the multiple inflictions his friend was suffering. Half Sherlock had already deduced himself and he soon stopped listening and instead focused on John himself.

_Tired, hasn't had a full night's sleep in three to four nights. Shoulder's giving him trouble again along with an aching back. Headache (Advil package in the waste bin.)_ The more and more Sherlock deduced the sicker he felt. _I've done this to him. Oh John, I'm sorry._

He realized John had stopped talking. He coughed (and then flinched as it racked his body with pain) and quickly said, "Ah, yes . . . fascinating."

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you."

"I listened a bit at the beginning." He pouted defensively.

John closed his eyes and took a deep shaky breath. "You were unconscious for three days, Sherlock."

"Oh." He hadn't supposed it was that long.

"They thought you were going to die."

"Oh." _That bad, huh?_

After a long pause, John finally asked, "Do you know how I found you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock thought he had a pretty good guess but he supposed that suggesting an answer would be the wrong thing to do. "No." He lied.

"I followed you up to the roof, saw that you weren't there and figured you must have gone roof hopping again." His tone was clipped and clinical. "I got back on the street and . . . and I heard you hit the ground from two blocks away. I called an ambulance and managed to keep enough blood in you . . . ." He trailed off and Sherlock couldn't help but picture how he must have appeared; bloody and broken on the cement.

For a long time the only sound in the room was the persistent beeping of the medical equipment. Sherlock waited patiently for John to begin his usual furious post near death situation rant until John let out a startling hollow laugh.

"You know, Sherlock, I've been waiting this entire bloody time for you to be coherent enough for me to finally shout at you and now that you finally are, I just don't have it in me. God, I was so worried and then the moment they told me you were stable . . . I was so furious I was trembling."

"John . . ."

"You can't possibly fathom what it was like to see you sprawled out on the cement again." His voice, though quite, shook slightly.

"It wasn't really me the first time, I-" Sherlock began.

"It was real enough for me."

The silence in the room was stifling. "Mary is furious."

That got Sherlock's attention, Mary rarely broke her calm. "Oh?"

"Yes, you should have seen her. She was practically livid when she found out how you'd got in this state. Gave the medics hell when they told us that you weren't likely going to make it. 'He's Sherlock bloody Holmes', she said, 'of course he'll make it!'" John chuckled tiredly.

"She's at home?"

"Yes. I finally convinced her to leave. She stayed here the whole of the time until this morning. Wouldn't have slept at all if your brother hadn't managed to get you a private room with an extra cot for her."

Ah yes, Mycroft. Still controlling the country even in retirement. When he had announced his departure from his "minor" position, Sherlock had laughed aloud. And true to his theory, Mycroft had managed to keep enough sources in government to keep himself living in comfort and maintain hold on his influence.

"You should go too." Sherlock said mildly.

John hummed in acknowledgement and glanced over at Sherlock's bedside table; or rather (as Sherlock was just noticing) the assortment of cards upon it.

"Who are those from?" Sherlock frowned.

"Believe it or not, you're quite popular, Sherlock." John picked one up. "Old friends, comrades, clients, officers from the Scotland Yard, this one's from the Lestrades." He said figuring to one particular card.

Sherlock grimaced. "How do they all know I'm here?"

"Facebook."

He rolled his eyes. "For God's sake." And then, "Who are these from?" in response to spotting several handmade cards.

John smiled. "Molly's grandkids."

Sherlock had to smile a bit. Sweet Molly Hooper no longer spent her Christmases in the Morgue surrounded by corpses, but rather at her home surrounded by her rather large family. She'd finally met a man shortly after assisting in Sherlock's death/resurrection and they'd married a while after. Together they'd had four kids; each now with children of their own. Although Molly had conquered her seemingly unconquerable crush on Sherlock, he remained a close family friend. Every child of Molly's blood knew the fantastic tales of Sherlock Holmes.

John tried to stifle a yawn. "Go home, John." Sherlock said.

He sighed and stood up. "Yeah, I guess I should."

Sherlock suddenly realized something and scolded himself for not noticing it earlier. "Not that I'm not pleased to maintain as minimal idiocy in the room as possible, but why haven't there been any staff in here? I've just woken up, isn't that supposed to be the kind of occasion that attracts attention in hospital's?"

John sat back down. "Oh, I suppose you don't remember. You woke up yesterday, and yes there was much attention drawn to the event. You were speaking, but you weren't making much sense. Shock and all."

"What do I say?"

John frowned. "Well, you kept saying my name." Sherlock flushed a bit. "And then you were saying that 'it doesn't make sense.' Not sure what you meant by it."

Which brought him back to his original question upon waking. Why had he fallen?

And the lines on John's face that reflected his own supplied him his answer.

"Oh." He whispered.

Too old. Oh, God. He couldn't make it because his body was no longer suitable for his profession.

"What?" John inquired, concerned.

Oh, and John. The way he flinched when he stood up, how tired he looked, never had Sherlock even thought . . . .

It was not just Sherlock's own health he was jeopardizing; it was John's as well. If he called, John would follow despite everything. Not for the thrill (although Sherlock was sure that John still just as much of an adrenaline junkie as he was) but to keep his friend safe. What if it had been John who'd attempted the jump between roofs instead of him? Sherlock cringed at the thought.

And then he remembered how he had longed for home the night of the fall.

He closed his eyes and felt the ache of his body despite the morphine in his blood.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared into the tired ones of John Watson. "John," He stated very quietly. "I think I'm ready."

John nodded slowly. "You sure?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighed.

John touched his shoulder briefly. They talked a bit afterwards about the case, until finally (after much insistence on Sherlock's part) John left for home.

A nurse came in soon after. "How are you feeling Mr. Holmes?"

The politeness, Sherlock thought, will soon disappear when I tell her that her husband is cheating on her.

But how _was_ he feeling? He had just decided to retire from the one and only profession that he had ever truly loved and pursued (besides piracy of course.) So he felt frustrated, obviously with his body; angry at himself; slightly nostalgic; melancholic even . . . .

And perhaps (in a hidden corner of his mind that he refused to acknowledge) a bit relieved.

* * *

**A/N: I'm so sorry about the delay, guys. My wi-fi has been acting absolutely mad and I haven't been able to get online for a couple of days. I hope you enjoyed this chapter anyway, next one is the finale!**


	6. Walking

From **_The Personal Blog of John H. Watson_**

_When my therapist first suggested I write everything that happened to me in a blog, I felt the profound urge to laugh. Nothing ever happened to me and staring at a blank computer screen just reminded me of how I had nothing in particular to live for. But then, of course, I met Sherlock. He brought color into my life and I will eternally be grateful; he gave me something worth writing about and perhaps had I not met him, I would never have met my wife either._

_Even as I'm writing this, I realize that I'm making it sound as though I'm dying. Well, no, that's no quite right. This is not an ending but a new chapter in all our lives and I'm ready for it._

_I'll be updating on this thing less frequently and when I do it'll be about old cases I never got around to typing up, the occasional new one, or just an update on how we're doing. I suspect I'll have some interesting stories (Sherlock's decided to take up bee keeping – much to my alarm; I fear for the bees' very lives – so that should be amusing to bear witness to.)_

_So, I suppose by entitling this post "Our Final Bow" I wasn't being quite accurate. This won't be the last you hear of Sherlock Holmes and his blogger. But I'd like to take this opportunity to say how blessed I am and how I thankful I am to lead such a wonderful (and certainly not dull!) life._

* * *

John re-read his entry a final time before uploading it and then shutting his laptop; obeying Mary repeated call, "Come on, boys!" She was already getting into the cab.

He swallowed down the rise of nostalgia that rose up in him as he glanced around the old flat. Things like the skull Sherlock used to talk to before John and the worn Afghan blanket that always draped over John's chair had been removed; packed up and sent to their new house in Sussex. But still the feeling was still there (despite the lack of severed limbs and the smell of tea), the sentiment that this had been his home for over twenty years.

"Coming, Sherlock?" John called, he wouldn't admit it but the sentimental side of him wanted to walk out of the building at Sherlock's side just like the first time he walked into it.

"Yes." He came out carrying his own laptop. "Just finished reading your blog entry."

"And?"

There were multiple sentiments that Sherlock could have criticized at that point. The bit about adding color to his life or the winds of change philosophy nonsense; John had made note of all of them while writing it, but decided to keep them anyway. He braced himself.

"Honestly John, 'Our Final Bow'?"

John laughed a loud, which seemed to startle Sherlock at first but he soon joined in. Together they made their way down the stairs and out the door, pausing briefly after shutting the door behind them, the golden numbers – two hundred and twenty one – searing themselves into John's memory forever.

He caught Sherlock's eye and smiled sadly, Sherlock scoffed, "Sentiment, John? For God's sake." But out of the corner of his eye, when he turned away, he saw Sherlock raise a hand and lightly touch the golden embossing with his long pale fingers.

The cabbie honked his horn. "Alright, we're coming." John said agitated.

Sherlock smirked and leaned down to whisper in John's ear. "His wife is having an affair."

John tried and failed to hold back his laughter.

As they drove away in the grey light of morning John couldn't help but realize that despite being happy with his choice to leave London, 221b and home would always be synonymical in his mind.

* * *

The years that were to follow were neither calm nor peaceful, or anything around that neighborhood really. But what was one to expect?

The case files addressed to Sherlock never failed to stop arriving in their mail slot. Not just from Dimmok, either. Word had spread in the world of criminal justice that there was a man living in Sussex who could solve any puzzle you could give him in a matter of seconds at best. The flow of mail was infinite, and soon the living area of the Watson's house consisted of mainly pillar like stacks of paper.

Beekeeping had at first seemed unbearably dull but in fact had turned out into quite a remarkable business. No one could've been more surprised than Sherlock, but he genuinely enjoyed the time he spent working on his hobby.

Town was a half miles walk from their home and the trio frequently visited the various shops and cafes . . . and of course solved the occasional mystery while out.

"I leave you two alone for ten minutes and suddenly your knee deep in a counterfeit money scandal!"

"Hardly my fault that something interesting is finally going on!" Sherlock would respond to Mary's mock exasperation.

There were even the occasional times when a case demanded immediate and first person attention. It was then that Sherlock and John would bid Mary farewell for the weekend and board the first train to London.

One such time, when the old friends had arrived at a crime scene post-retirement, applause had broken out at the sight of them climbing out of their cab. Even the new officers who had never actually met Holmes and Watson knew of the legend and watched with wide eyes as Mr. Sherlock Holmes deduced their very lives in front of them.

The case had been riveting and too soon were they heading home.

* * *

"Alright, so you're telling me that it was her son-in-law all along?" They were discussing Sherlock's latest (and particularly tricky) case that he had solved on the train of all places.

"Yes, rather stupid of him to blame it on the neighbors."

"And why's that?"

"They were on holiday; Dimmok was too idiotic to include that alibi when we spoke on the phone."

John glanced at him in the moonlight; they were walking home after the train ride to town. "Well you certainly didn't ask."

"Shut up." Sherlock said but then laughed quietly when John began to giggle.

The night was warm and breezy and the cicadas chirped eagerly. As the two men walked in pursuit of home they talked and laughed and argued about the things long gone and the things to come.

By the time their house was in sight, Sherlock's legs and back were aching in a way that they never would have when he was younger. Even just walking sapped his seemingly immeasurable strength as of recent days. He would never admit it to John, but the entire London case (despite being beautifully intricate and interesting) was exhausting. He was glad to be home.

John's phone rang. "Hello? . . . Yes, Mary we're on our way . . . well, we had to take the later train . . . okay, yeah I should have called. I'm sorry . . . . What? . . . Mary, I'm _sorry_ . . . okay, okay. See you soon, Love. Bye." And then to Sherlock. "Mary said that she refuses to make tea as result of our frequent lateness without notification."

Sherlock chuckled. "No she isn't."

"And how'd you deduce that?"

Sherlock nodded to the house, which was just down the street now.

"_Oh_." John said. "Mary never leaves lights on in an unoccupied room and she always waits for us in the living room. But right now the only light on is the kitchen." He smiled. "She was lying. Brilliant."

They reached the gate to their house and entered the yard. _Thank God,_ Sherlock thought in exhaustion. Suddenly he realized that John had stopped walking.

"John?"

John's smile was barely visible in the dark. "Come here." He instructed.

Frowning Sherlock went to his friend's side. "Look up." And Sherlock did.

The stars. Oh God, there were so many. An infinity of suns burning in the ink black sky. Pinpricks of white light fighting their way through the galaxy to reach planet Earth; desperate to be noticed.

"Don't get me wrong, I loved visiting London and everything. But, God, I missed this sky."

Sherlock nodded numbly and then realized John was staring at him; smiling. He felt a rush of gratitude for his friend and smiled back realizing that it didn't matter if he was sore from walking as long as John was by his side and Mary was waiting with a pot of tea.

* * *

There are so few people in this world who genuinely enjoy what they do for a living. Even fewer like who they do it with. These people who do are truly blessed. One such person is a self proclaimed sociopath named Sherlock Holmes.

There are many things we may deduce about Mr. Holmes from this fact. One such thing: he is a very lucky man.

* * *

And Sherlock knew this. His joints ached and he was nearly drained. But he felt an odd sense of contentment while opening the door to his house, spilling yellow light onto the lawn, and calling, "Come on, John!" over his shoulder; catching a glance of his friend smiling up at the stars. And he knew exactly why.

"Come on, John" had been repeated so many times over the years. It could be a statement of encouragement or sometimes condescension. Of jovial excitement while chasing a taxi or impatient gloom when waiting for a cup of tea. It was an invitation, a declaration of love and respect, a thank you, and a promise.

He was Sherlock Holmes and the man who would always be at his side was John Watson, and he had to smile.

Because he need not check over his shoulder: when Sherlock called, John would (inevitably and infinitely) follow.

The End

* * *

**A/N: So there you have: the end of my very first story on this site. Hopefully you'll be seeing much more of me soon, and you should put me on alert if you're interested in reading more of my stuff.**

**Thank you all so much for all the kind words and for following this story, I appreciate it so much and I hope you've enjoyed my work.**

**God bless and a warm handshake in thought,**

**~Mildred Graves**

**(story edited on 11/19)**


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